Delia began to look so wrathful as she went on, that Anna longed to change the subject to one which might be more soothing. She could not at all understand why her companion was so angry. It was certainly a pity that Mr Goodwin was obliged to give lessons, but if he must, it was surely a good thing that people were willing to employ him. While she was pondering this in silence, she was relieved by a welcome proposal from Delia that they should go down-stairs, and have tea in the garden. "Afterwards," she added, "I will show you the way to Waverley over the fields."

In the garden it was pleasant and peaceful enough. Tea was ready, under the shade of the medlar tree. The pigeons whirled and fluttered about over the red roofs all around, settling sometimes on the lawn for a few moments, bowing and cooing to each other. Mrs Hunt, meanwhile, chatted on in a comfortable way, hardly settling longer on one spot in her talk than the pigeons; from the affairs of her district to the affairs of the nation, from an anecdote about the rector to a receipt for scones, she rambled gently on; but at last coming to a favourite topic, she made a longer rest. Anna was glad of it, for it dealt with people of whom she had been wishing to hear—her mother and her grandfather. Mrs Hunt had much to tell of the former, whom she had known from the time when she had been a girl of Anna's age until her marriage with Mr Bernard Forrest. She became quite enthusiastic as one recollection after the other followed.

"A sweeter face and a sweeter character than Prissy Goodwin's could not be imagined," she said. "We were all sorry when she left Dornton, and every one felt for Mr Goodwin. Poor man, he's aged a great deal during the last few years. I remember him as upright as a dart, and always in such good spirits!"

"I have a portrait of my mother," said Anna, "a miniature, painted just after her marriage. It's very pretty indeed."

"It should be, if it's a good likeness," said Mrs Hunt. "There's never been such a pretty girl in Dornton since your mother went away. I should like to see that portrait. When you come over again, which I hope will be soon, you must bring it with you, and then we will have some more talk about your dear mother."

Anna readily promised, and as she walked up the High Street by Delia's side, her mind was full of all that she had heard that afternoon. It had interested and pleased her very much, but somehow it was difficult to connect Mr Goodwin and his dusty, little house with the picture formed in her mind of her beautiful mother. If only she were alive now!

"I suppose you were a baby when my mother married," she said, suddenly turning to her companion.

"I was two years old," replied Delia, smiling, "but though I can't remember your mother, I can remember your grandfather when I was quite a little girl. He was always so good to me. Long before he began to teach me to play, I used to toddle by his side to church, and wait there while he practised on the organ. I think it was that which made me first love music."

"It seems so odd," said Anna, hesitatingly, "that I should be his grandchild, and yet that he should be almost a stranger to me; while you—"

"But," put in Delia, quickly, for she thought that Anna was naturally feeling jealous, "you won't be strangers long now; you will come over often, and soon you will feel as though you'd known him always. To tell you the truth," she added, lightly, "I felt dreadfully jealous of you when I first heard you were coming."

Jealous! How strange that sounded to Anna; she glanced quickly at her companion, and saw that she was evidently in earnest.

"I don't know, I'm sure, about coming to Dornton often," she said, "because, you see, Aunt Sarah is so tremendously busy, and she likes to do certain things on certain days; but, of course, I shall come as often as I can. I do hope," she added, earnestly, "I shall be able to see you sometimes, and that you will often come over to Waverley."

Delia was silent.

"You see," continued Anna, "I like being at Waverley very much, and they're very kind indeed; but it is a little lonely, and if you don't mind, I should be so glad to have you for a friend."

She turned to her companion with a bright blush, and an appealing look that was almost humble. Delia was touched. She had begun to think Anna rather cold and indifferent in the way she had talked about coming to Dornton; but, after all, it was unreasonable to expect her to feel warm affection for a grandfather who was almost a stranger. When she knew him she would not be able to help loving him, and, meanwhile, she herself must not forget that she had promised the Professor to be Anna's friend; no doubt she had said truly that, she was lonely at Waverley. She met Anna's advances cordially, therefore, and by the time they had turned off the high-road into the fields, the two girls were chatting gaily, and quite at their ease with each other. Everything in this field-walk was new and delightful to Anna, and her pleasure increased by feeling that she had made a friend of her own age. The commonest wild-flowers on her path were wonderful to her unaccustomed eyes. Delia must tell their names. She must stop to pick some. They were prettier even than Aunt Sarah's flowers at Waverley. What were those growing in the hedge? She ran about admiring and exclaiming until, near the end of the last field, the outbuildings of Leas Farm came in sight, which stood in a lane dividing the farmer's property from Mr Forrest's.

"There's Mr Oswald," said Delia, suddenly.

Anna looked up. Across the field towards them, mounted on a stout, grey cob, came the farmer at a slow jog-trot. So much had happened since her arrival at Waverley, that she had now almost forgotten the events of that first evening, and all idea of telling her aunt of her acquaintance with Mr Oswald had passed from her mind. As he stopped to greet the girls, however, and make a few leisurely remarks about the weather, it all came freshly to her memory.

"Not been over to see my cows yet, missie," he said, checking his pony again, after he had started, and leaning back in his saddle. "My Daisy's been looking for you every day. You'd be more welcome than ever, now I know who 'twas I had the pleasure of driving the other day— for your mother's sake, as well as your own."

Delia turned an inquiring glance on her companion, as they continued their way. Would she say anything? Recollecting Mrs Winn's story, she rather hoped she would. But Anna, her gay spirits quite checked, walked soberly on in perfect silence. It made her uncomfortable to remember that she had never undeceived Aunt Sarah about that fly. What a stupid little mistake it had been! Nothing wrong in what she had done at all, if she had only been quite open about it. What would Delia think of it, she wondered. She glanced sideways at her. What a very firm, decided mouth and chin she had: she looked as though she were never afraid of anything, and always quite sure to do right. Perhaps, if she knew of this, she would look as scornful and angry as she had that afternoon, in speaking of the Dornton people. That would be dreadful. Anna could not risk that. She wanted Delia to like and admire her very much, and on no account to think badly of her. So she checked the faint impulse she had had towards the confession of her foolishness, and was almost relieved when they reached the point where Delia was to turn back to Dornton. They parted affectionately, with many hopes and promises as to their meeting again soon, and Anna stood at the white gate watching her new friend until she was out of sight.

Then she looked round her. She was in quite a strange land, for although she had now been some weeks at Waverley, she had not yet explored the fields between the village and Dornton. On her right, a little way down the grassy lane, stood Mr Oswald's house, a solid, square building, of old, red brick, pleasantly surrounded by barns, cattle-sheds, and outbuildings, all of a substantial, prosperous appearance. It crossed Anna's mind that she should very much like to see the farmer's cows, as he had proposed, but she had not the courage to present herself at the house and ask for Daisy. She must content herself by looking in at the farmyard gate as she passed it. A little farther on, Delia had pointed out another gate, on the other side of the lane, which led straight into the Vicarage field, and towards this she now made her way.

She was unusually thoughtful as she sauntered slowly down the lane, for her visit to Dornton had brought back thoughts of her mother and grandfather, which had lately been kept in the background. She had to-day heard them spoken of with affection and admiration, instead of being passed over in silence. Waverley was very pleasant. Aunt Sarah was kind, and her Uncle John indulgent, but about her relations in Dornton there was scarcely a word spoken. It was strange. She remembered Delia's sparkling eyes as she talked of Mr Goodwin. That was stranger still. In the two visits Anna had paid to him, she had not discovered much to admire, and she had not been pleased with the appearance of Number 4 Back Row. It had seemed to her then that people called him "poor Mr Goodwin" with reason: he was poor, evidently, or he would not live all alone in such a very little house, with no servants, and work so hard, and get so tired and dusty as he had looked on that first evening she had seen him. Yet, perhaps, when she knew him as well as Delia did, she should be able to feel proud of him; and, at any rate, he stood in need of love and attention.

She felt drawn to the Hunts and the Dornton people, who had known and loved her mother, and she resolved to make more efforts to go there frequently, and to risk displeasing Aunt Sarah and upsetting her arrangements. It would be very disagreeable, for she knew well that neither Mr Goodwin nor Dornton were favourite subjects at Waverley; and when things were going smoothly and pleasantly, it was so much nicer to leave them alone. However, she would try, and just then arriving at the farmyard gate, she dismissed those tiresome thoughts, and leaned over to look with great interest at the creatures within. As she did so, a little girl came out of the farmhouse and came slowly down the lane towards her. She was about twelve years old, very childish-looking for her age, and dressed in a fresh, yellow cotton frock, nearly covered by a big, white pinafore. Her little, round head was bare, and her black hair closely cropped like a boy's. She came on with very careful steps, her whole attention fixed on a plate she held firmly with both hands, which had a mug on it full of something she was evidently afraid to spill. Her eyes were so closely bent on this, that until she was near Anna she did not see her; and then, with a start, she came suddenly to a stand-still, not forgetting to preserve the balance of the mug and plate. It was a very nice, open, little face she raised towards Anna, with a childish and innocent expression, peppered thickly with freckles like a bird's egg, especially over the blunt, round nose.

"Did you come from the Vicarage?" she inquired, gravely.

"I'm staying there," replied Anna, "but I came over the fields just now from Dornton."

"Those are puppa's fields," said the child, "and this is puppa's farm."

"You are Daisy Oswald, I suppose?" said Anna. "Your father asked me to come and see your cows." The little girl nodded.

"I know what your name is," she said. "You're Miss Anna Forrest. Puppa fetched you over from the station. You came quick. Puppa was driving Strawberry Molly that day. No one can do it as quick as her." Then, with a critical glance, "I can ride her. Can you ride?"

"No, indeed, I can't," replied Anna. "But won't you show me your cows?"

"Why, it isn't milking-time!" said Daisy, lifting her brows with a little surprise; "they're all out in the field." She considered Anna thoughtfully for a moment, and then added, jerking her head towards the next gate, "Won't you come and sit on that gate? I often sit on that gate. Most every evening."

The invitation was made with so much friendliness that Anna could not refuse it.

"I can't stay long," she said, "but I don't mind a little while."

Arrived at the gate, Daisy pushed mug and plate into Anna's hands.

"Hold 'em a minute," she said, as she climbed nimbly up and disposed herself comfortably on the top bar. "Now"—smoothing her pinafore tightly over her knees—"give 'em to me, and come up and sit alongside, and we'll have 'em together. That'll be fine."

Anna was by no means so active and neat in her movements as her companion, for she was not used to climbing gates; but after some struggles, watched by Daisy with a chuckle of amusement, she succeeded in placing herself at her side. In this position they sat facing the Vicarage garden at the end of the field. It looked quite near, and Anna hoped that Aunt Sarah might not happen to come this way just at present.

"How nice it is to sit on a gate!" she said; "I never climbed a gate before."

Daisy stared.

"Never climbed a gate before!" she repeated; "why ever not?"

"Well, you see, I've always lived in a town," said Anna, "where you don't need to climb gates."

Daisy nodded.

"I know," she said, "like Dornton. Now there's two lots of bread and butter, one for me and one for you, and we must take turns to drink. You first."

"But I've had tea, thank you," said Anna. "I won't take any of yours."

Daisy looked a little cast down at this refusal, but soon set to work heartily on her simple meal alone, stopping in the intervals of her bites and sups to ask and answer questions.

"Was the town you lived in nicer than Dornton?" she asked.

"It was not a bit like it," replied Anna. "Much, much larger. And always full of carts, and carriages, and people."

"My!" exclaimed Daisy. "Any shops?"

"Lots and lots. And at night, when they were all lighted up, and the lamps in the streets too, it was as light as day."

"That must have been fine," said Daisy, "I like shops. Were you sorry to come away?"

Anna shook her head.

"Do you like being at Waverley?" pursued the inquiring Daisy, tilting up the mug so that her brown eyes came just above the rim; "there's no one to play with there, but I s'pose you don't mind. I haven't any brothers and sisters either. There's only me. But then there's all the animals. Do you like animals?"

"I think I should very much," answered Anna, "but you can't have many animals in London."

"Well," said Daisy, who had now finished the last crumb of bread and the last drop of milk, "if you like, I'll show you my very own calf!"

"I'm afraid it's getting late," said Anna, hesitatingly.

"'Twon't take you not five minutes altogether," said Daisy, scrambling hastily down from the gate. "Come along."

Anna followed her back to the farmyard, where she pushed open the door of a shed, and beckoned her companion in. All was dim and shadowy, and there was a smell of new milk and hay. At first Anna could see nothing, but soon she made out, penned into a corner, a little, brown calf, with a white star on its forehead; it turned its dewy, dark eyes reproachfully upon them as they entered.

"You can stroke its nose," said its owner, patronisingly.

"Shall you call it Daisy?" asked Anna, reaching over the hurdles to pat the soft, velvety muzzle.

"Mother says we mustn't have no more Daisies," said its mistress, shaking her little, round head gravely. "You see puppa called all the cows Daisy, after me, for ever so long. There was Old Daisy, and Young Daisy, and Red Daisy, and White Daisy, and Big Daisy, and Little Daisy, and a whole lot more. So this one is to be called something different. Mother say Stars would be best."

As she spoke, a distant clock began to tell out the hour. Anna counted the strokes with anxiety. Actually seven! The dinner hour at Waverley, and whatever haste she made, she must be terribly late.

"Ah, I must go," she said, "I ought not to have stayed so long. Good-bye. Thank you."

"Come over again," said Daisy, calling after her as she ran to the gate. "Come at milking-time, and I'll show you all the lot."

Anna nodded and smiled, and ran off as fast as she could. This was her first transgression at the Vicarage. What would Aunt Sarah say?



CHAPTER SIX.

DIFFICULTIES.

No man can serve two masters.

Anna found her life at Waverley bright and pleasant as the time went on, in spite of Aunt Sarah's strict rules and regulations. There was only one matter which did not become easy, and that was her nearer acquaintance with her grandfather. Somehow, when she asked to go to Dornton, there was always a difficulty of some kind—Mrs Forrest could not spare the time to go with her, or the pony-cart to take her, or a maid to walk so far, and she must not go alone. At first, mindful of her resolves, she made efforts to overcome those objections, but being always repulsed, she soon ceased them, and found it easier and far more pleasant to leave her aunt to arrange the visits herself.

In this way they became very rare, and when they did take place, they were not very satisfactory, for Anna and her grandfather were seldom left alone. She did not, therefore, grow to be any fonder of Back Row, or to associate her visits there with anything pleasant. Indeed, few as they were, she soon began to find them rather irksome, and to be relieved when they were over. This was the only subject on which she was not perfectly confidential to her new friend, Delia, who was now her constant companion, for although Anna went very seldom to Dornton, Mrs Forrest made no objection to their meeting often elsewhere.

So Delia would run over to the Vicarage whenever she could spare time, or join Anna in long country rambles, and on these occasions it was she who listened, and Anna who did most of the talking. Delia heard all about her life in London, and how much better she liked the country; all about Aunt Sarah's punctuality, and how difficult it was to go to Dornton; but about the Professor she heard very little. Always on the lookout for slights on his behalf, and jealous for his dignity, she soon began to feel a little sore on his account, and to have a suspicion that Anna's heart was not in the matter. For her own part, she knew that not all the aunts and rules in the world would have kept her from paying him the attention that was his due. As the visits became fewer this feeling increased, and sometimes gave a severity to her manner which Anna found hard to bear, and it finally led to their first disagreement.

"Can you come over to church at Dornton with me this evening?" asked Delia one afternoon, as she and Anna met at the stile half-way across the fields.

"I should like to," said Anna, readily, "very much indeed, if Aunt Sarah doesn't mind."

"I'll walk back with you as far as this afterwards," said Delia. "You would see your grandfather. You've never heard him play the organ yet."

"I don't suppose aunt would mind," said Anna, hesitatingly, her fair face flushing a little.

"Well," said Delia, "you can run back and ask her. I'll wait for you here. You will just have time."

The bells of Saint Mary's church began to sound as she spoke.

"Only you must go at once," she added, "or we shall be too late."

Still Anna hesitated. She hated the idea of asking Aunt Sarah, and seeing her mouth stiffen into that hard line which was so disagreeable; but it was almost as bad to face Delia, standing there, bolt upright, with her dark eyes fixed so unflinchingly upon her.

"I know," she said, appealingly, "that Aunt Sarah has arranged for me to go to Dornton next week."

"Oh," said Delia, coldly.

"And," pursued Anna, turning away from her companion and stooping to pick a flower, "she does like me, you know, to go to the service at Waverley with her. She says uncle prefers it."

Delia's glance rested for a moment in silence on the bending figure, with the pale yellow hair outspread on the shoulders gleaming in the sunshine; then she said in rather a hard voice:

"The fact is, I suppose, you don't want to go. If so, you had better have said so at first."

Anna rose quickly, and faced her friend:

"It's unkind, Delia," she exclaimed, "to say that. I do want to go. You know I like to be with you—and I should like to go to Dornton church much better than Waverley."

"Then why don't you ask Mrs Forrest?" said Delia, calmly. "She can't mind your going if I walk back with you. It's worth the trouble, if you want to see your grandfather."

Anna cast down her eyes and fidgeted with the flowers in her belt.

"You don't understand," she began, rather nervously, "how difficult it is to ask Aunt Sarah some things—"

"But this is quite a right, reasonable thing," interrupted Delia; "there's nothing wrong in wishing to see your grandfather sometimes. Of course, if you never ask Mrs Forrest, she thinks you don't care about it."

"I do ask," said Anna. "I have often asked; but, you know I told you, Delia, Aunt Sarah never likes me to go to Dornton."

"Then you mean to give it up, I suppose," said Delia, coldly.

"If I'm staying with Aunt Sarah, I suppose I ought to do as she wishes," said Anna; "but, of course, I shan't give it up entirely. She doesn't wish me to do that."

Delia stood for a moment in silence, her eyes fixed on Anna's pretty, downcast face. The sound of the church bells came softly to them over the fields from Dornton, and "Well," she said, with a little sigh, "I mustn't stay, or I shall be late, and I promised to meet the Professor after church. He half expects to see you with me. What shall I say to him?"

"Oh, Delia!" cried Anna, looking up into her companion's face, "I do wish I could go with you."

"It's too late now," said Delia, turning away. "Good-bye."

Anna lingered at the stile. Would not Delia turn round once and nod kindly to her, as she always did when they parted? No. Her compact figure went steadily on its way, the shoulders very square, the head held high and defiantly. Anna could not bear it. She jumped over the stile and ran after her friend. "Delia!" she called out. Delia turned and waited. "Don't be cross with me," pleaded Anna. "After all, it isn't my fault; and I should like to go with you so much. And—and give my love to grandfather, please. I'm going to see him next week."

She took hold of Delia's reluctant hand and kissed her cheek. Delia allowed the embrace, but did not return it. Her heart was hot within her. Mrs Winn had said that Anna was not straightforward. Was it true?

Anna had not much time for any sort of reflection, for she had to get back to Waverley as fast as she could, and, in spite of her haste, the bell stopped just as she reached the garden gate, and she knew that her aunt would have started for church without her. It was barely five minutes' walk, but she had to smooth her hair, and find some gloves, and make herself fit for Mrs Forrest's critical eye, and all this took some time. When she pushed open the heavy door and entered timidly, her footfall sounding unnaturally loud, the usual sprinkling of evening worshippers was already collected, and her uncle had begun to read the service. Anna crept into a seat. She knew that she had committed a very grave fault in Mrs Forrest's sight, and she half wished that she had made up her mind to go to Dornton with Delia. She wanted to please every one, and she had pleased no one; it was very hard. As she walked back to the Vicarage with her aunt after service, she was quite prepared for the grave voice in which she began to speak.

"How was it you were late this evening, Anna?"

"I'm very sorry, aunt," she answered. "I was talking to Delia Hunt in the field, and until we heard the bell, we didn't know how late it was."

"If you must be unpunctual at all," said Mrs Forrest—"and I suppose young people will be thoughtless sometimes—I must beg that you will at least be careful not to let it occur at church time. Nothing displeases your uncle more than the irreverence of coming in late as you did to-day. It is a bad example to the whole village, besides being very wrong in itself. As a whole," she continued, after a pause, "I have very little fault to find with your behaviour; you try to please me, I think, in every respect, but in this matter of punctuality, Anna, there is room for improvement. Now, you were a quarter of an hour late for dinner one night. You had been with Delia Hunt then too. I begin to think you run about too much with her: it seems to make you forgetful and careless."

"But," said Anna, impulsively, "my being late had nothing at all to do with Delia this time. I was with Daisy Oswald."

"Daisy Oswald!" repeated Mrs Forrest, in a tone of surprise. "When did you make Daisy Oswald's acquaintance?"

She turned sharply to her niece with a searching glance. Anna blushed and hesitated a little.

"I—we—Delia and I met her father as we were walking home from Dornton. He asked me to go and see his cows; and then, after Delia had left me, I met his little girl in the lane just near the farm."

Mrs Forrest was silent. She could not exactly say that there was anything wrong in all this, but she highly disapproved of it. It was most undesirable that her niece should be running about the fields and lanes, and picking up acquaintances in this way. Daisy Oswald was a very nice little girl, and there was no harm done at present, but it must not continue. The thing to do, she silently concluded, was to provide Anna with suitable occupations and companions which would make so much liberty impossible for the future.

To her relief, Anna heard no more of the matter, but it was easy to see that Aunt Sarah had not liked the idea of her being with Daisy. It was uncomfortable to remember that she had not been quite open about it. Somehow, since that first foolish concealment, she had constantly been forced into little crooked paths where she could not walk quite straight, but she consoled herself by the reflection that she had not told any untruth.

A few days later Mrs Forrest, returning from a drive with her face full of satisfaction, called Anna to her in her sitting-room. She had been able, she said, to make a very nice arrangement for her to have some lessons in German and French with the Palmers. Miss Wilson, their governess, had been most kind about it, and it was settled that Anna should go to Pynes twice every week for a couple of hours.

"It will be an immense advantage to you," concluded Mrs Forrest, "to learn with other girls, and I hope, beside the interest of the lessons, that you will make friendships which will be both useful and pleasant. Isabel Palmer is about your own age, and her sister a little older. They will be nice companions for you, and I hope you will see a good deal of them."

From this time Anna's life was very much altered. Gradually, as her interests and amusements became connected with the Palmers and all that went on at their house, she saw less and less of Delia, and it was now Mrs Forrest who had to remind her when a visit to Dornton was due. There were no more country rambles, or meetings at the stile, and no more confidential chats. Anna had other matters to attend to, and if she were not occupied with lessons, there was always some engagement at Pynes which must be kept. And yet, she often thought, with a regretful sigh, there was really no one like Delia! Isabel Palmer was very pleasant, and there was a great deal she enjoyed very much at Pynes, but in her heart she remained true to her first friend. If only it had been possible to please every one! If only Delia would be kind and agreeable when they did meet, instead of looking so cold and proud! By degrees Anna grew to dread seeing her, instead of looking forward to it as one of her greatest pleasures at Waverley. Everything connected with Pynes, on the contrary, was made so easy and pleasant. Aunt Sarah's lips never looked straight and thin when she asked to go there, and Isabel Palmer was sure of a welcome at any time. The pony-cart could nearly always be had if it were wanted in that direction, though it seemed so inconvenient for it to take the road to Dornton. And then, with the Palmers there was no chance of severe looks on the subject of Mr Goodwin. Did they know, Anna wondered, that he was her grandfather? Perhaps not, for they had lived at Pynes only a short time. There was no risk of meeting him there, for Saturday, when he gave Clara a music-lesson, was a specially busy day with Mrs Forrest, and she always wanted Anna at the Vicarage.

It was strange that Anna should have come to calling it a "risk" to meet her grandfather, but it was true. Not all at once, but little by little, since her separation from Delia, the habit of dismissing him from her thoughts, as well as keeping silence about him, had grown strong within her. At first Delia's scornful face often seemed to flash before her in the midst of some gaiety or enjoyment. "You are not worthy of him," it seemed to say. But it had been so often driven away that it now came very seldom, and when it did, it looked so pale and shadowy that it had no reality about it. Anna threw herself into the amusements which her new friends put in her way, and determined to be happy in spite of uncomfortable recollections.

On her side, Delia had now come to the swift decision natural to her age and character. Anna was unworthy. She had been tried and found wanting. Gold had been offered to her, and she had chosen tinsel. It was not surprising that the Palmers should be preferred to herself, but that any one related to the Professor, able to see and know him, should be capable of turning aside and neglecting him for others, was a thing she could neither understand nor bear with patience. She ceased to speak of it when she met Anna, and preserved a haughty silence on the subject, but her manner and looks expressed disapproval plainly enough. The disapproval grew stronger as time went on, for although no word of complaint ever passed Mr Goodwin's lips, Delia soon felt sure that he longed to see more of his grandchild. They often talked of Anna, the Professor listening eagerly to any news of her or account of her doings. No hint of disappointment was ever given, but affection has quick instincts, and Delia was able to understand her old friend's silence as well as his speech. She ran in to Number 4 Back Row one afternoon, and found him looking rather uncertainly and nervously at his tea-table, which Mrs Cooper had just prepared in her usual hurried manner— slapping down the cups and plates with a sort of spiteful emphasis, and leaving the cloth awry. He looked relieved to see Delia.

"You would perhaps put things a little straight, and make it look nicer," he said. "I don't know how it is, but Mrs Cooper seems to spoil the look of things so."

"You expect a visitor?" said Delia, as she began to alter the arrangement of the little meal, and noticed two cups and plates.

"Yes," said the Professor, half shyly. "I got some water-cresses and some fresh eggs. And that kind Mrs Winn sent me some trout this morning. Mrs Cooper promised to come in presently and cook them."

Delia observed that the room had quite a holiday air of neatness. There was no dust to be seen anywhere, and a special, high-backed arm-chair, which was not in general use, was now drawn up to one side of the tea-table.

"That was Prissy's chair," he continued, looking at it affectionately; "she always sat there, and I thought I should like to see Anna in it."

"Oh, is Anna coming to tea with you?" exclaimed Delia. "I am glad. Is she coming alone?"

The Professor nodded. There was a faint pink flush of excitement on his cheek. His hand trembled a little as he touched the bunch of mignonette which he had put on the table.

"My flowers never do very well," he said, trying to speak in an off-hand tone; "they don't get enough sun. And then, the other day I had to pour my coffee out of the window, and I forgot that the border was just underneath. I daresay it didn't agree with them."

"I suppose Mrs Cooper made it so badly that even you could not drink it?" said Delia; "but it's certainly hard that she should poison your flowers as well. Why don't you tell her about it?"

"Oh, she does her best, she does her best," said the Professor, quickly; "I wouldn't hurt her feelings for the world."

"Well, she won't improve at that rate," said Delia; "it's a good thing every one is not so patient as you are. Now"—surveying her arrangements—"I think it all looks very nice, and as I go home I'll call in at Mrs Cooper's and remind her about the fish. Perhaps I shall have time to bring you a few more flowers before Anna comes."

Quite excited at the idea of the Professor's pleasure at having Anna all to himself for a little while, she quickly performed her errands, and finally left him in a state of complete preparation, with roses upon his table, and the trout cooking in the kitchen; he himself, stationed at the window, meanwhile pulling his watch out of his pocket every two or three minutes to see if it were time for his guest to arrive.

During the week which followed, Delia thought more kindly of Anna than she had done for some time past. Perhaps, after all, she had judged her too hastily; perhaps she had been hard and unjust; very likely this meeting would be the beginning of a happier state of things between Mr Goodwin and his grandchild.

"Did you have a pleasant evening on Saturday?" she asked, when they next met.

Anna was sitting in the Palmers' pony-cart, outside a shop in the town, waiting for Isabel: she blushed brightly when she saw Delia, and looked rather puzzled at her question.

"Where?" she said, vaguely. "Oh, I remember. I was to have had tea with grandfather, but aunt made another engagement for me, and I didn't go."

Delia's face clouded over with the disapproving expression Anna knew so well.

"He didn't mind a bit," she said, leaning forward and speaking earnestly. "He said another evening would do just as well for him."

"I daresay he did," replied Delia, coldly.

"And, you see, it was a cricket match at Holmbury," Anna continued, in an apologetic voice; "such a lovely place! and the Palmers offered to drive me, and another day wouldn't have done for that, and Aunt Sarah thought—"

"Oh, naturally," said Delia, lightly, "the cricket match was far more important. And, of course, the Professor wouldn't mind. Why should he?"

She nodded and passed on, just as Isabel came out of the shop.

"Wasn't that Delia Hunt?" said Isabel, as she got into the pony-cart; "what is the matter? Her face looked like the sky when thunder is coming."

Delia felt as she looked, as though a storm were rising within her. She thought of the Professor's little feast prepared so carefully, the flowers, the high-backed chair standing ready for the guest who never came. She could not bear to imagine his disappointment. How could Anna be so blind, so insensible? All her hard feelings towards her returned, and they were the more intense because she could speak of them to no one—a storm without the relief of thunder. She had a half-dread of her next meeting with Mr Goodwin, for with this resentment in her heart it would be difficult to talk about Anna with patience, and yet the meeting must come very soon.

The next day was Wednesday, on which evening it was his custom to stay in the church after service and play the organ for some time. Delia, who was generally his only listener, would wait for him, and they would either stroll home together, or, if it were warm weather, sit for a little while under a certain tree near the church. They both looked forward to those meetings, but this week, when the time came, and Delia mounted the steep street which led up to the church, she almost wished that the Professor might not be there.

Dornton church was perched upon a little hill, so that, though it was in the town, it stood high above it, and its tall, grey spire made a landmark for miles round. The churchyard, carefully planted with flowers, and kept in good order, sloped sharply down to old gabled houses on one side, and on the other to open meadows, across which the tower of Waverley church could be just seen amongst the trees. On this side a wooden bench, shadowed by a great ash, had been let into the low wall, and it was to this that Delia and the Professor were in the habit of repairing after the Wednesday evening services.

Mr Goodwin's music had always power to soothe Delia, and to raise her thoughts above her daily troubles; but to-night, as she sat listening to him in the empty church, she felt even more than usual as if a mighty and comforting voice were speaking to her. As long as the resounding notes of the organ continued, she forgot the little bustle of Dornton, and her anger against Anna, and even when the Professor had finished and joined her in the porch, the calming influence remained.

"Can you stay a little this evening?" he asked, as they walked through the churchyard together; "if you can spare time I should like a talk. It's about Anna," he continued, when they were seated under the flickering shadow of the ash tree; "I didn't see her the other evening, after all—"

"So I heard," said Delia.

"No—I didn't see her," repeated Mr Goodwin, poking the ground reflectively with his stick. "She went to some cricket match with her friends; she's to come to me another time. It's very kind of Mrs Palmer to give her so much pleasure. I suppose Anna enjoys it very much? I hear of her going about with them a good deal."

"I think she does," said Delia.

"It's always such a comfort to me," he continued, his kind eyes beaming upon his companion from beneath the brim of his wide-awake, "to think that you are her friend. I don't see much of her. I told you I should not be able to, when she first came, but the next best thing is to know that you do."

Delia was silent. She did not meet his glance, but pressed her lips together and frowned a little.

"Anna wants a friend," pursued the Professor, thoughtfully. "Little as I see of her, I can tell that. She has the sort of nature which depends greatly on influence—every one does, I suppose, but some of us can stand alone better than others."

"Anna seems to get on very well," said Delia. "People always like her."

"Yes, yes, yes," said the Professor, nodding his head gently, "so I should think—so I should think. But when I say a 'friend,' Delia, I don't mean that sort of thing; I mean some one who's willing to take a little trouble."

"I don't see how you can be a friend to a person that doesn't want you," said Delia, impatiently. "If Anna wanted me—"

"You're not displeased with her about anything, I hope?" said the Professor, anxiously; "she has not offended you?"

Delia hesitated. She could not bear to disappoint him, as he waited eagerly for her answer.

"The fact is," she said at length, "I don't understand Anna. She doesn't look at things in the same way as I do. She gets on better with the Palmers than with me."

"I'm sorry for that," said the Professor, with a discouraged air, "but Anna's very young, you know, in years and character too. I daresay she needs patience."

"I'm afraid I've not been patient," said Delia, humbly.

Mr Goodwin was the only person in the world to whom she was always ready to own herself in the wrong.

"Oh, well, patience comes with years," he said; "you're too young yet to know much about it. It's often hard enough, even after a long life, to bear with the failings of others, and to understand our own. People are so different. Some are strong, and some are weak. And the strong ones are always expecting the weak ones to stand upright as they do, and go straight on their way without earing for praise or blame. And, of course they can't—it's not in them—they stumble and turn aside at little things that the others wouldn't notice. And the weak ones, to whom, perhaps, it is natural to be sweet-tempered, and yielding, and forgiving, expect those virtues from the strong—and they don't find them—and then they wonder how it is that they find it hard to forgive and impossible to forget, and call them harsh and unbearable. And so we go on misunderstanding instead of helping each other."

Delia's face softened. Perhaps she had been too hasty with Anna—too quick to blame.

"Listen," said the Professor, "I was reading this while I waited for service to begin this evening."

He had taken out of his pocket a stumpy, and very shabby little brown volume of Thomas a Kempis, which was very familiar to her.

"But now, God hath thus ordered it, that we may learn to bear one another's burdens, for no man is without fault; no man but hath his burden; no man is self-sufficient; no man has wisdom enough for himself alone. But we ought to bear with one another, comfort, help, instruct, and admonish one another."

He shut the little book, and turned his eyes absently across the broad, green meadows. Delia knew that absent look of the Professor's well. It meant that he was travelling back into the past, seeing and hearing things of which she knew nothing. Yet, though he did not seem to be speaking to her, every word he said sank into her mind.

"It's very hard for strong people to bear with weakness. It's such a disappointing, puzzling thing to them. They are always expecting impossibilities. Yet they are bound to help. It is a sin to turn aside. To leave weakness to trail along in the mire when they might be a prop for it to lean on and climb upwards by. The strong have a duty to the weak, and lessons to learn from them. But they are hard lessons—hard lessons."

Long after he had finished, Mr Goodwin sat with his eyes fixed musingly on the distance, and Delia would not disturb his thoughts by a single word. Even when they walked home together they had very little to say, and were both in a silent mood. When they parted at the turning to Back Row, Delia spoke almost for the first time.

"I'm not going to be cross to Anna any more, Professor. You may feel quite happy about that."



CHAPTER SEVEN.

THE PALMERS' PICNIC.

Faithful are the wounds of a friend.

One very hot afternoon a little later, there had been a glee-practising at the Hunts' house, a meeting which, of all others, was most distasteful to Delia. The last guest had taken leave, and her mother being on the edge of a comfortable nap in the shaded drawing-room, she was just stealing away to her garret, when the bell rang.

"Don't go away, my love," murmured Mrs Hunt, half-asleep, and as she spoke Mrs Winn's solid figure advanced into the room.

Delia resigned herself to listen to the disjointed chat which went on between the two ladies for a little while, but soon the visitor, taking pity on Mrs Hunt's brave efforts to keep her eyes from closing, turned her attention in another direction.

"I'm afraid," she said, moving her chair nearer to Delia, "that poor, old Mr Goodwin must be sadly disappointed about his grandchild, isn't he?"

It always vexed Delia to hear the Professor called "poor and old."

"Why?" she asked, shortly.

"Well, because he evidently sees so little of her," said Mrs Winn. "It has turned out exactly as I said it would. I said from the very first, that sort of marriage never answers. It always creates discord. Of course, it's a difficult position for Mrs Forrest, but she ought to remember that the child owes duties and respect to Mr Goodwin. 'Honour thy father and mother,' and, of course, that applies to a grandfather too."

"I believe Mr Goodwin is quite satisfied," answered Delia.

"Oh, I daresay," said Mrs Winn. "We all know he's a dear, meek, old man, who could never say boo to a goose. But that doesn't make it right. Now, I know for a fact that he expected Anna Forrest to tea with him one evening, and she never came. I know all about it, because I happened to send him some trout that morning, and Mrs Cooper went in to cook them. Mrs Cooper chars for me, you know. 'I was quite sorry, ma'am,' she said, when she came the next day, 'to see the poor, old gentleman standing at the window with his watch in his hand, and the trout done to a turn, and his flowers and all. It's hard on the old to be disappointed.'"

Mrs Winn rolled out these sentences steadily, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Delia all the while. Now she waited for a reply.

"I heard about it," she said. "Anna was not able to go."

"Then she should have sent word sooner, or her aunt should have done so. It was a great want of respect. I'm surprised, Delia, you should take it so coolly, when you think so much of Mr Goodwin. Now, if I should see Anna Forrest, I shall make a point of putting her conduct in a right light to her. I daresay no one has done so yet—and she is but a child."

Delia shivered inwardly. She knew that Mrs Winn was quite capable of doing as she said. How the Professor would shrink from such interference! Yet she did not feel equal to saying much against it, for Mrs Winn had always kept her and every one else in Dornton in order. Her right to rebuke and admonish was taken as a matter of course.

"You don't know, you see," she began, "how it was that Anna was prevented. Perhaps—"

Mrs Winn had now risen, and stood ready to depart, with her umbrella planted firmly on the ground.

"My dear," she interrupted, raising one hand, "I know this. Wrong is wrong, and right is right. That's enough for me, and always has been. Now, I won't disturb your dear mother to say good-bye, for I think she's just dropped off. I'll go softly out."

She moved with ponderous care out of the room, followed by Delia, but came to a stand again in the hall.

"You heard about this picnic of the Palmers?" she said, inquiringly. "You're going, of course. It seems to be a large affair."

"I'm not quite sure," said Delia.

"Julia Gibbins came in this morning," continued Mrs Winn, "quite excited about her invitation. She wanted to know what I meant to wear. Julia's so absurdly frivolous, she thinks as much of her dress as a girl of sixteen. 'At our age, my dear Julia,' I said to her, 'we need not trouble ourselves about that. You may depend on it, no one will notice what we have on. For myself, I shall put on my Paisley shawl and my thickest boots. Picnics are always draughty and damp.' I don't think she quite liked it. Now, do you suppose the Palmers have asked Mr Goodwin? Anna Forrest's so much there, that I should almost think they would."

"Why not, as well as other people in Dornton?" asked Delia.

"He never goes to Waverley," said Mrs Winn.

"That is by his own wish," said Delia, quickly. "He has told me about that."

"Oh, indeed, by his own wish," repeated Mrs Winn, her wide open grey eyes resting thoughtfully upon Delia; "that's strange, with his grandchild staying there. However," with a parting nod, as she moved slowly out, "we shall soon see about the picnic."

Delia smiled to herself as she watched her visitor's portly form out of sight. How very little it would matter to the Professor whether the Palmers sent him an invitation or not! He would not even notice the absence of one. He had never cultivated the habit of feeling himself injured, and was happily placed far above the miseries of fancied slights and neglect. Nevertheless she resented, as she always did, the tone of condescension with which Mrs Winn had mentioned him, and returned to the drawing-room with a ruffled brow and a vexed spirit.

Mrs Hunt still slumbered peacefully, quite undisturbed by the little agitations of Dornton. As her daughter entered, she gently opened her eyes.

"Del, my love," she murmured, "I meant to ask you to go and inquire how Mrs Hurst's little boy is this morning. Did I?"

"No, mother," said Delia.

"There's a beautiful jelly made for him," said Mrs Hunt, closing her eyes again, and folding her hands in front of her comfortable person. "I thought you might take it."

"I passed the door this morning," said Delia. "I could easily have taken it if you had remembered to ask me. It's so late now."

"It won't keep firm this hot weather," continued Mrs Hunt's sweet, low voice. "He ought to have it to-day."

Delia did not answer. She was tired. It was hot. Mrs Winn's visit had come at the close of a most irksome afternoon. She was longing for a little quiet time for her music.

"Poor Mrs Hurst!" pursued her mother. "So many children, and so few to help her. Johnnie's been worse the last day or two."

As usual on such occasions, Delia shortly found herself, basket in hand, making her way along the dusty High Street to Mrs Hurst's house. Dornton and the Dornton people seemed to her at that moment almost unbearable. Should she ever get away from them? she wondered. Would her life be spent within the hearing of Mrs Winn's sententious remarks, the tedious discussions of tiny details, the eternal chatter and gossip, which still seemed to buzz in her ears, from the meeting that afternoon? Then her thoughts turned to their usual refuge, the Professor, and she began to plan a visit to Anna at Waverley. Since her last talk with him, she had made up her mind that she would do her very utmost to renew their old friendliness. She would not take offence so easily, or be so quick to resent it, when Anna did not see things as she did. She would be patient, and she would keep her promise to the Professor. She would try to understand. For his sake she would humble herself to make the first advance, and this, for Delia's somewhat stubborn spirit, was a greater effort than might be supposed.

Anna, meanwhile, was quite as much interested as the Dornton people about the picnic which the Palmers intended to give. All country pleasures were new to her, and her companions at Pynes were very much amused to hear that she had never been to a picnic in her life, and had most confused ideas as to what it meant.

"It will be a very large one," said Isabel Palmer to her one morning. "Mother thinks it will be such a good way of entertaining the Dornton people. We thought of a garden-party, but if it's fine a picnic will be much more fun."

The three girls were alone in the schoolroom, their lessons just over, and Anna was lingering for a chat before going back to Waverley.

"Have you settled on the place yet?" she asked.

"Alderbury," replied Isabel, "because it's near, and there's a jolly little wood to make the fire in."

"How delightful it will be!" exclaimed Anna. "How I wish it was going to be to-morrow, I'm so afraid something will prevent it."

"Bother this list!" put in Clara's voice, from the table where she sat writing; "you might help me, Isabel."

"What do you want?" asked her sister.

"Well—Mr Goodwin, for instance—am I to put him down?"

Anna gave a little start, and gazed earnestly out of the window at which she stood, as Isabel went up to the table and looked over Clara's shoulder. Then they did not know! Aunt Sarah had not told them. How strange it seemed!

"W-well, I don't know," said Isabel, reflectively. "We never have asked him to anything; but a picnic's different. He's a very nice old man, isn't he?"

"He's an old dear," replied her sister, heartily, "but he's an organist. We shouldn't ask the organist of the church here."

"Mr Goodwin's different, somehow," said Isabel; "he's so clever, and then he's a great friend of the Hunts, you know, and, of course, we shall ask them."

"Well, what am I to do?" repeated Clara.

"Put him down, and put a query against him," decided Isabel, "and when mother sees the list, she can alter it if she likes."

Anna expected every moment during this discussion that her opinion would be asked. She stood quite still, her back turned to her companions, a bright flush on her cheek, her heart beating fast. When all chance of being appealed to was over, and the girls had gone on to other names, she drew a deep breath, as if she had escaped a danger.

"I must go now," she said, turning towards them, "Aunt Sarah wants me early to-day;" and in a few moments she was out of the house and on the way home.

It was not until she was half-way down the long hill which led from Pynes to Waverley, that she began to realise what difficulties she had prepared for herself by her silence. If Mr Goodwin were asked, and if he came to the picnic, the relationship between them must be known. That would not matter so much, but it would matter that she had seemed to be ashamed of it. Why had she not told them long ago? Why had she not spoken just now, at the first mention of his name? What a foolish, foolish girl she had been! What should she do now? Turning it over in her mind, she came to the conclusion that she must make some excuse to her Aunt, and stay away from the picnic. She could not face what might happen there. The Palmers' surprise, Delia's scorn. Why did you not tell us? she heard them saying, and what could she answer? As she thought of how much she had looked forward to this pleasure, a few tears rolled down Anna's cheek, but they were not tears of repentance. She was only sorry for her own disappointment, and because things did not go smoothly. It was very hard, she said to herself, and the hardest part was that she was forced continually into crooked ways. She did not want to be deceitful; she would much rather be brave and open like Delia, only things were too strong for her. As she thought this, Delia's face seemed suddenly to appear before her: it did not look angry or scornful, but had a gentle, almost pleading expression on it: she was speaking, and what she said sounded quite clearly in Anna's ears: "Go back and tell them now. Go back and tell them now," over and over again.

Anna stopped uncertainly, and turned her head to where, over the tops of the trees, she could still catch a glimpse of the chimneys of Pynes: she even took two or three steps up the hill again, the voice still sounding entreatingly and loud. But now it was joined by another, louder and bolder, which tried to drown it. This one told her that, after all, there was no need. Things would go well. The Palmers might never know. Soon they would go to Scotland, and after that—well, that was a long way off. Anna turned again, this time with decision, and finished the rest of her journey to Waverley almost at a run, without stopping to think any more.

As the days went on without any further mention of Mr Goodwin, she began to hope that, after all, she might be able to go to the picnic. How should she find out? She had not courage to ask the Palmers, and though it would have been a simple matter to ask her grandfather himself, she shrank from facing him and his gentle kindliness just now. If only some visitor from Dornton would come over! This wish was at last realised in a very unexpected way, and one which was not altogether pleasant. It was the day on which her visit to Mr Goodwin was usually made, and she had begged her aunt to allow her to remain at home. The heat had given her a headache, and she would rather go to Dornton some other day. Mrs Forrest received the excuse indulgently.

"I will call in and leave a message with Mr Goodwin," she said, "and you had better lie down quietly in your own room. By the time I get back you will be better, I hope."

But Aunt Sarah had hardly been gone ten minutes before there was a knock at Anna's door:

"Mrs Winn would like to speak to you, miss. I told her you were not well, but she says she will only keep you a few minutes."

Anna did not know much of Mrs Winn, and thought, as she went down-stairs, that she had most likely some message for Mrs Forrest to leave with her. Would she say anything about the picnic, or the people who were going to it?

Mrs Winn had taken up a determined position on a stiff, straight-backed chair in the middle of the room. There was severity in her glance as she replied to Anna's greeting, and remarked that she was sorry to miss Mrs Forrest.

"Aunt Sarah's only just started to drive into Dornton," said Anna; "I wonder you did not meet her."

"I came by the fields," replied Mrs Winn shortly. "You were not well enough to go out, I hear?"

"I had a headache," said Anna, with her pretty blush; "aunt thought I had better stay at home."

"You don't look much the worse for it," said Mrs Winn, without removing her unblinking gaze. "Girls in my young days didn't have headaches, or if they did, they put up with them, and did their duty in spite of them. Things are turned topsy-turvy now, and it's the old who give way to the young."

Surprised at this tone of reproof, for which she was quite unprepared, Anna's usually ready speech deserted her. She said nothing, and hoped that Mrs Winn would soon go away. But that was evidently not her intention just yet: she had come prepared to say what was on her mind, and she would sit there until it was said.

"But, perhaps," she continued, "it's just as well you didn't go out, for I've been wanting an opportunity to speak to you for some days."

"To me?" said Anna, faintly.

"I never shrink from my duty," went on Mrs Winn, "whether it's unpleasant or not, and I don't like to see other people doing so. Now, you're only a child, and when you neglect to do what's right, you ought to be told of it."

Anna gazed in open-eyed alarm at her visitor. What could be coming?

"I don't suppose you know, and, therefore, I think it my duty to tell you, that your grandfather, old Mr Goodwin, was extremely disappointed the other day when you failed to keep your promise. I hear that he waited for you until quite late."

"Aunt Sarah wished me to go out with the Palmers," said Anna. "Grandfather said he didn't mind at all—"

"I knew your mother well," proceeded Mrs Winn, rolling on her way without noticing this remark, "and a sweet, young creature she was, though she made one mistake that I always regretted. And I know Mr Goodwin, of course, and respect him, though he's not made of the stuff that gets on in the world. Still, whatever his position is, you owe him duty and reverence; and let me tell you, young lady, there may come a time when you'll be sorry you've not given it. It's all very well, and very natural, I daresay, to enjoy frolicking about with your gay young friends now. But youth passes, and pleasure passes, and then we all have time to remember the duties we didn't stoop to pick up when they lay at our door."

Anna sat in sulky silence during this long speech, with her eyes cast down, and a pout on her lips. What right had Mrs Winn to scold her?

Sullen looks, however, had no sort of effect on that lady, and when she had taken breath, she proceeded to finish her lecture:

"I keep my eyes open, and my ears too, and I know very well, that though your grandfather says nothing, and is the sort of man to bear any neglect without complaint, that he feels hurt at your going so seldom to see him. And, knowing this, it was my duty to come and tell you, as there was no one else to do it. Your aunt and uncle are not intimate with him, and Delia Hunt's too young to speak with any weight.—There's another thing, too, I wanted to mention. Up to yesterday Mr Goodwin had received no invitation to the Palmers' picnic."

Anna's heart gave a sudden leap of joy. Then she could go to the picnic!

"I fancy, if she knew this, that Mrs Forrest would neither go herself nor allow you to do so," continued Mrs Winn. "Considering his connection with this family, it's a slight to her and her husband as well as to him. It's extremely strange of the Palmers, when they take so much notice of you. I almost feel inclined to go on to Pynes this afternoon and point it out to them!"

She waited, looking at Anna for a reply, but none came, for she was partly stunned by the force and suddenness of Mrs Winn's attack, and also filled with alarm at the idea of her going to Pynes. That would spoil everything. So she sat in silence, nervously twisting her fingers in her lap, her downcast face strangely unlike that of the usually bright, self-possessed Anna.

"After all," concluded Mrs Winn, "I'm rather tired, and it's a good mile farther, so I'll go back over the fields as I came, though the stiles do try me a good deal. You know how matters stand now, and you can't say you've not been openly dealt with. So we'll shake hands, and bear no malice."

Anna went with her visitor as far as the garden door, and watched her until she was hidden from sight by the great walnut tree on the lawn. What a tiresome, interfering old lady she was, and how angry Aunt Sarah would be! Her head really ached now. It felt as though some one had been battering it on each side with large, strong hands, and she was quite confused and giddy; but through it all one triumphant thought came uppermost. She could go to the picnic! Presently she strolled out into the garden, fanning her hot face with her hat, as she turned things over in her mind. On the whole, she would not mention Mrs Winn's visit to her aunt, and, of course, she must not know that Mr Goodwin had not been asked to the picnic. It was very near now, and as Mrs Forrest was not fond of listening to Dornton gossip, she was not likely to hear of it in any other way. To go to the picnic had now taken such full possession of Anna's mind that nothing else seemed of much importance. She was ready to bend and twist everything that came in her way to make the road to it straight. A small reproving voice, which still sounded sometimes, was getting less and less troublesome. "Afterwards," Anna said to it, "after the picnic, I will behave differently. I will never conceal anything, and I will go often to see grandfather—but I must go to the picnic."

The stable clock sounding five disturbed her reflections. Aunt Sarah would be home soon without fail, for at a quarter past there would be a mothers' meeting at the schoolroom, at which she always presided. Anna went too, sometimes, and helped to measure out calico and flannel, but she hoped she should be excused this afternoon. The schoolroom was hot, and she did not find the books Aunt Sarah read aloud to the mothers very interesting.

There was the pony-cart in the distance! But who was the second figure sitting beside Mrs Forrest? Could it be Delia? Anna ran through the house and into the porch, from which she could see the long approach to the Rectory gate. There had been a time when Delia's coming had meant unmixed rejoicing, but that was over. She seemed to come now not so much as a friend as a severe young judge, whose looks condemned, even when she did not speak.

Mrs Winn had only put into words what Delia's face had said for some time past, and, with the sound of them still in her ears, Anna felt more alarmed than pleased, as she saw that it really was her old friend. Had she, too, come to point out her duty?

With the mothers' meeting on her mind, Mrs Forrest descended quickly from the pony-cart, and passed Anna in the porch without looking at her.

"Is your headache better?" she said, as she went straight into the drawing-room, where tea was ready. "I overtook Delia on her way to see you, and brought her on with me. You must take care of yourselves, for I must start almost immediately. Please pour me out a cup of tea at once."

When Mrs Forrest had drunk her tea, and set forth at a leisurely pace for the schoolroom, provided with work-basket and book, the two girls were alone together. There was a pause of embarrassment, which Delia was the first to break.

"I was coming over," she said, "to ask if you would care to go and get water-lilies down at the river this evening. You said you would like some rushes too."

Her voice sounded kind, almost as it used to long ago, although there was a sort of shyness in her manner. Anna was greatly relieved. Surely Delia would not have begun like this if she intended to reprove her.

"Mrs Forrest said you might go, if your head was better," continued Delia.

Anna replied eagerly that her headache was nearly gone, a walk would do it good, she should like it immensely; and a few minutes later the girls started on their expedition. It was one which had been planned in the first days of their acquaintance, when Anna had thought no pleasure could compare to a ramble in the country with Delia. Fresh from the rattle and noise of London, its stony pavements, and the stiff brilliancy of the flowers in the parks, it had been a sort of rapture to her to wander freely over the fields and through the woods. Aunt Sarah's garden was beautiful, but this was better still. All the flowers found here might be gathered, and Delia knew exactly where they all grew in their different seasons, and the best way of getting to them. Anna had begun, under her guidance, to make a collection of wild-flowers, but though started with great energy, it had not gone far. It had ceased, together with the walks, shortly after her acquaintance with the Palmers had filled her mind with other things. Yet those rambles with Delia had never been forgotten. Anna thought of them often, and knew in her heart that she had never been so really happy since. This evening, as she walked along swinging her basket, she felt as though the old days had come back, and the old Delia too. It could not be so, really. If she knew—but she did not know. Meanwhile the sky was blue, Delia was kind, the meadows were gay and pleasant, she would forget everything disagreeable, and enjoy herself.

Their way lay for a short distance along the high-road, then over a stile, and down through the rich flat water-meadows which spread out on each side of the river. The Dorn was neither a rapid nor a majestic stream, but took its leisurely course between its sloping banks, with a contented ripple, disturbing no one. This course was a very winding one, making all kinds of little creeks, and shallows, and islands on its way, and these were full of delightful plants for any one who cared to gather them. Tall families of bulrushes and reeds swaying to the wind whistling through them; water-lilies, holding up their flat, green hands to make a table for their white blossoms; forests of willow-herb on the banks, wild peppermint and comfrey, and the blue eyes of forget-me-nots peeping out here and there with modest confidence.

"There's an old punt fastened just about here," said Delia, as they reached the river, "so we can get right out amongst the lilies, and then we can reach the rushes too."

Delia was always the leader on such occasions, and Anna was used to following her with perfect confidence, but when they came to the old punt, a little higher up, she eyed it with some misgivings. It looked very insecure, and shaky, and rotten.

"Oh, Delia," she cried, as her companion jumped lightly on to it and waited for her to follow, "it's leaking—I can see the water through it. Do you think it will bear us both?"

Delia laughed as Anna crept cautiously down the bank. It reminded her of the time when she had had to encourage and help her to climb gates and scramble through hedges.

"Come along," she said, holding out her hand, "it's as safe as dry land. Why, I've seen four great boys on it at once."

"How beautiful!" cried Anna, as, after a little more encouragement, she found herself safely on the punt by Delia's side, surrounded by water-lilies and bulrushes. They set to work to fill their basket with these, and when it was done there were always finer ones still almost out of reach. These must be had at any cost. Delia would lie flat on the punt, and while Anna held the skirt of her dress, would manage to get hold of them with the handle of a stick. There was both excitement and triumph in these captures, and while they were going on the girls forgot that any coolness had come between them, or that the world held much beyond water-lilies and bulrushes. When, however, they climbed out of the punt with their dripping prizes, and sat down on the bank to rest a little, recollections returned.

"What a pity," thought Anna, with a sigh, "that things are not always pleasant. Delia is nicer than any one when she is kind."

Delia, on her side, as she packed the lilies into the basket, reminded herself that there was something she had to say to Anna, and wondered how she should begin.

As usual, she plunged straight into the matter of which her mind was full, and said suddenly:

"Do you ever meet your grandfather at Pynes?"

Here was the tiresome subject again! All pleasure was over now.

"No, never," replied Anna. "He gives Clara lessons on Saturdays, and Aunt Sarah always wants me at home then."

"You are going to this picnic, I suppose?" said Delia. "Does Mrs Forrest know that the Professor has not been asked?"

"I don't know," murmured Anna.

She glanced quickly at her companion, and saw the severe look coming back which she always dreaded.

"Of course," continued Delia. "It does not in the least matter, as far as he is concerned, for he would not, in any case, go; but I should have thought his relations would have felt it a slight; and I can't understand Mrs Palmer."

Anna was silent. She wished now that Delia had not come, though she had enjoyed the walk so much.

"But I didn't mean to talk about that," resumed Delia, with an effort. "What I wanted to say has nothing to do with the picnic. It's about you, Anna, and myself."

"About me?" repeated Anna.

After all, Delia was going to be angry, yet her voice sounded quite soft and kind.

"Yes. At first I didn't mean to say anything to you, because I thought you ought to be able to see it for yourself. And when you didn't, I was angry, and that kept me silent. But I know now, it was wrong. People can't see things just alike, and I ought to have been kinder, and tried to help you more."

At this new tone of humility Anna's heart softened at once to her friend. When she spoke like that, she felt for the moment that she would do anything she asked—even give up the picnic.

"Oh, Delia," she exclaimed, impulsively, "you've always been very kind. Kinder than I deserve."

"That's nothing to do with it," answered Delia. "People can do without friends when they deserve them. The thing is, that I promised the Professor to be your friend, and I haven't carried it out."

"It's been my fault," said Anna, in a penitent voice, "but really and truly, Delia, you may not believe me, but I do like you better than Isabel Palmer—or any one. I do indeed."

She spoke the truth. At that moment she felt that she would rather have Delia for a friend than any one in the world. Yet she was conscious that, if Delia knew all, she would find it hard to forgive her. What a pity it all was!

"So, what I want to tell you," continued Delia, "and what I ought to have told you before, is this. I've let you think that your grandfather doesn't mind your going so seldom to see him—but I know that he does."

She paused and looked earnestly at Anna.

"Grandfather never says anything about it," Anna murmured.

"That's just it," said Delia. "He's so unselfish and good, he wouldn't let you or any one know it for the world. He thinks so little of himself, it would be impossible to offend him. It's not what he says. Oh, Anna, if you really knew, and loved him, you couldn't let anything else come before him! Not all the Palmers, and Waverleys, and Aunt Sarahs in the world. You couldn't give him a minute's pain or disappointment."

She was so moved by her subject, that the tears stood in her dark eyes as she turned them upon Anna.

"I'll try, Delia; I really will," said the latter, "but it is hard. Harder than you think. It makes Aunt Sarah different for days afterwards."

Delia snapped off the head of a water-lily in her impatient fingers.

"Aunt Sarah!" she repeated. Then more gently: "You see, Anna, you must choose whether you'll pain the Professor or displease Mrs Forrest. You can't possibly please both of them. You must choose which you think right, and stick to it. You can't serve God and mammon."

How dreadfully earnest Delia was! It almost frightened Anna to hear her talk like that.

"I will try," she repeated. "I will do my best, Delia, if only you won't be angry any longer."

She put her hand softly into her companion's, and Delia's fingers closed over it in a warm clasp. For the time, the old feelings of confidence and affection had returned, and when, a little later, Anna walked back to the Vicarage alone, she was full of good resolves. She would try to deserve Delia's friendship. She would go often to Dornton, and be very loving to her grandfather. She would turn over a new leaf.

"My dear Anna," cried Mrs Forrest, meeting her in the porch with her basket of wet, shining river-plants, "do you know the time? Miss Stiles has been waiting to try on your dress for the picnic. Dear me! what dripping things! Let Mary take them."

The picnic! Anna had really for the moment forgotten the picnic. All the good resolves trooped into the background again while she tried on the new dress. But only till after the picnic! When that was over she would make a fresh start, and never, never, conceal anything again.



CHAPTER EIGHT.

THE BEST THINGS.

A rose which falleth from the hand, which fadeth in the breast, Until in grieving for the worst, we learn what is the best.

Mrs Browning.

Everything went on quite smoothly until the day fixed for the picnic came. Aunt Sarah gave no hint of any objection; the weather was gloriously hot and fine; Anna's new white dress was very pretty—there was nothing wanting to her long-desired enjoyment.

She stood amongst the nodding roses in the porch, waiting for the Palmers to call for her in their carriage, on the way to Alderbury. Aunt Sarah was, perhaps, to drive over and join the party later. Anna had dismissed all troublesome thoughts. She felt sure she was going to be very happy, and that nothing unlucky would happen to spoil her pleasure. She was in gay spirits, as she fastened a bunch of the little cluster-roses in her dress. Isabel had once told her that she looked very pretty in white, and she was glad to feel that she suited the beauty of the bright summer day.

"Anna!" said Mrs Forrest's voice from the hall within.

Anna turned. The hall looked dark and shadowy after the sunshine, but it was easy to see that there was vexation on her aunt's face as she studied the letter in her hand.

"I have just had a note from Dr Hunt," she said. "Mr Goodwin, your grandfather, is not very well."

"What is the matter?" asked Anna.

She left the porch and went up to her aunt's side.

"Why, I can't quite make out. Dr Hunt talks of fever, but says there is nothing infectious. Brought on by over-exertion in the heat, he thinks. He says you may safely go to see him—"

There was a pause. Mrs Forrest and Anna looked at each other: each waited for the other to speak. Must I give up the picnic after all? thought Anna.

"I don't gather that it's anything serious," said Mrs Forrest at length. "I think the best plan will be for me to go over to Dornton, after you've started, and see Dr Hunt. Then, if there's really no danger of infection, you can go there early to-morrow," She looked inquiringly at Anna, as though half-expecting her to make some other suggestion. The sound of wheels on the gravel, and the tramp of horses, told that the Palmers were approaching: the wagonette, full of gay young people, drove up to the porch.

"Are you ready, Anna?" called out Isabel's voice.

"Will that satisfy you?" said Mrs Forrest; "you must decide now."

"We're late, Anna," said Isabel again, "why don't you come?"

Anna hesitated. She looked out at the bright sunshine, where her companions called her to gaiety and pleasure, and then at the letter in her aunt's hand.

"Here's your cloak, Miss Anna," said the maid waiting at the door.

In another moment, it seemed almost without any will of her own, she was squeezed into the carriage amongst her laughing companions, had waved a farewell to Mrs Forrest standing smiling in the porch, and was whirled away to the picnic.

The hours of the sunny day, filled with delight for Anna amongst the pleasant woods of Alderbury, did not pass so quickly at Number 4 Back Row. The Professor was ill. He had had a slight feverish attack to begin with, which passed off, and seemed of no importance, but it had left him in a state of nervous weakness and prostration, at which Dr Hunt looked grave. Mr Goodwin must have been over-exerting himself for some time past, he declared, and this breakdown was the result. It would probably be some time before he could do any work. Perfect rest, and freedom from all care and agitation, were the only remedies.

"Don't let him know, Delia," he said to his daughter as he left the house, "that he's likely to be laid up long. Keep him as quiet and cheerful as possible. I'll send a line to Mrs Forrest, and let her know that his grandchild may be with him as much as she likes."

Delia prepared to spend the rest of the day with her old friend, and having persuaded him to lie down on the hard little couch, and made him as comfortable as she could with pillows, she sat down in the window with her sewing. From here she could watch the little gate, and prevent any one from entering too suddenly. Of course Anna would come soon. The Professor was very quiet, but she thought he turned his eyes towards the door now and then, as though looking for some one. Was it Anna? At last she was thankful to see him fall into a doze which lasted some while, and she was just thinking for the hundredth time that Anna must come now, when she was startled by his voice:

"Prissy," it said, quite clearly.

Delia went up to the sofa. Mr Goodwin gazed at her for a moment without recognition.

"You've had a nice sleep, Professor," she said, smiling, "and now you are going to have some tea with me."

But in spite of his sleep, the Professor's face looked anxious, and he hardly tasted the tea which Delia prepared. As she took his cup, he said wistfully:

"Did Dr Hunt write to Mrs Forrest?"

Delia nodded.

"Did—did Anna happen to come while I was asleep?" was his next question.

"She's not been yet," said Delia, "but they may not have had the letter till late. She will come soon."

"I should like to see her," said the Professor.

Why did not Anna come? As the weary hours went by, and the sun got lower and lower, he became very restless, looked first at his watch and then at the door, and no longer tried to conceal how much he wanted to see his grandchild. Delia tried in vain to divert his mind by reading his favourite books, but it was evident that he was not listening to her. He was listening for the click of the gate, and the footsteps outside. Every subject in which she tried to interest him came back to the same thing, Anna, and Anna's doings. Delia could not help one throb of jealous pain, as she recognised how powerless she was to take her place, a place she seemed to value so little. But it was only for one moment; the next she put all thought of herself aside. Anna belonged to the dearest memories of the Professor's life. She had a place in his heart which would always be kept for her, whatever she had done or left undone. To bring peace and comfort into his face again, Delia would have been willing at that moment to give up her own place in his affections entirely. If only Anna would come!

"I suppose it's too late to expect her now, my dear, isn't it?" said the patient voice again.

Delia could not bear it any longer.

"I think," she said, as cheerfully as she could, "if you don't mind being alone a little while, I'll just run over to Waverley. Mrs Cooper's here, if you want anything, you know."

"Will you really?" said the Professor, with hope in his voice.

"There's perhaps been some mistake about that letter," said Delia. "You'd like to see Anna to-night, wouldn't you?"

"Well, I should," said Mr Goodwin. "It's very absurd, I know, but I had such a strange dream just now about her and Prissy, and I can't get it out of my head. I suppose being not quite up to the mark makes one unreasonable, but I really don't think I could sleep without seeing her. It's very good of you to go, my dear."

"I'll be back in no time, and bring her with me," said Delia.

She spoke with confidence, but half-way across the fields she stopped her rapid pace, checked by a sudden thought—the picnic!

In her anxiety she had forgotten it. Anna might have started before Dr Hunt's note got to Waverley. Even then, though, she said to herself, she must be home by now. So she ran on again, and half an hour later she was on her way back over the darkening fields—without Anna. She had gone to the picnic, and she knew the Professor was ill! Once Delia would have felt angry; now there was only room in her heart for one thought: "He will be disappointed, and he will not sleep to-night."

The church clock struck nine as she entered the High Street in Dornton, and the same sound fell faintly on Anna's ears on her way back from Alderbury. The picnic had been over long ago, but, shortly after the party started to return, one of the horses lost a shoe; the carriage in which Anna was had to proceed at a slow walk for the rest of the distance, and it would be very late before she could reach Waverley.

No accident, however, could damp her spirits, or those of her companions. It was all turned into amusement and fun. The whole day had been more delightful than any Anna had known. It was over now, that delightful day, and she gave a little sigh of regret to think that she was at the end of it instead of at the beginning. The one shadow which had fallen across the brightness of it, had been cast by the substantial figure of Mrs Winn, whom she had seen in the distance now and then. Once she had noticed her in earnest conversation with Mrs Palmer, and thought that they had both looked in her direction, but it had been easy to avoid contact with her amongst so many people. It had not spoiled her enjoyment then; but now, her excitement a little cooled down, unpleasant thoughts began to make themselves heard.

Here was the Rectory at last! Anna burst into the drawing-room, her fair hair falling in confusion over her shoulders, a large bundle of foxgloves in her arms, her cheeks bright with the cool night breeze.

"Oh, aunt!" she exclaimed, "we've had such a lovely, lovely day. Why didn't you come?"

"You're very late, my dear Anna," said Mrs Forrest, gravely. "I expected you more than an hour ago."

Anna explained the reason of her delay.

"Alderbury is the most perfect place," she repeated. "Why didn't you come?"

"It's very unlucky that you should be late," said Mrs Forrest. "Delia has been over asking for you."

Anna's face fell. "Oh!" she exclaimed. "My grandfather! Is he worse?"

"I don't think so. And from what I learned from Dr Hunt, he is not at all seriously ill. But he was restless, Delia said, and wanted to see you to-night."

"To see me," said Anna. She let her flowers fall in a heap on the ground. "Oh, Aunt Sarah, I wish I had not gone to the picnic!"

"Now, my dear Anna, that is foolish. You shall go to Dornton early to-morrow, and no doubt you will find Mr Goodwin better. Remember that there is no cause for anxiety, and though the accident of your being late was very unfortunate, it could not be avoided."

Aunt Sarah's composed words were reassuring. Probably her grandfather was not very ill, Anna thought; but oh, why had she gone to the picnic, and what would Delia say?

These last words were in her mind again next morning, as she arrived at Number 4 Back Row, and stood waiting to be let in. The little house looked very sad and silent, as though it knew its master was ill. Presently the door opened a very little way, and the long, mournful face of Mrs Cooper appeared. When she saw who it was she put her finger on her lip, and then said in a loud, hoarse whisper, "I'll call Miss Delia."

Anna was left outside. She felt frightened. Why did Mrs Cooper look so grave? Perhaps grandfather was very ill after all!

It seemed ages before the door opened again, and when it did, it was Delia who stood there. She did not look at all angry, but her face was very sad.

"He has had a very bad night," she whispered, "but now he is sleeping. He must not be disturbed. You had better come later."

That was all. The door was gently shut again, and Anna stood outside. As she turned away, her eyes filled with tears. Yesterday her grandfather had wanted her, and she had not gone—to-day the door was shut. He must be very ill, she felt sure, whatever Aunt Sarah might say. His kind, gentle face came before her, as she made her way along— always kind, never with any reproach in it. How could she have gone to the picnic, and left him to ask for her in vain?

As she reached the place where the pony-cart waited for her, Isabel Palmer came out of a shop. She looked at her with a sort of cold surprise.

"Oh, Anna," she said, "how is Mr Goodwin? We only heard yesterday he was ill. I was going to his house to ask after him."

"Dr Hunt says there is no cause for anxiety," said Anna, repeating the sentence she had so often heard from Aunt Sarah.

"It was Mrs Winn who told mother he was ill," continued Isabel, observing Anna's downcast face curiously, "and—she said another thing which surprised us all very much. Why didn't you tell us long ago that Mr Goodwin is your grandfather?"

Anna was silent.

"We can't understand it at all," continued Isabel. "Mother says it might have caused great unpleasantness. She's quite vexed."

She waited a moment with her eyes fixed on Anna, and then said, with a little toss of her head:

"Well—good-bye. I suppose we shan't meet again before we go to Scotland. Mother has written to tell Mrs Forrest that we're not going on with lessons."

They parted with a careless shake of the hands, and Anna was driven away in the pony-cart. Her friendship with Isabel, her pleasant visits to Pynes, were over now. She was humbled and disgraced before every one, and Delia would know it too. It would have been a wounding thought once, but now there was no room in her heart for any feeling but dread of what might happen to Mr Goodwin.

"Oh, Aunt Sarah," she cried, when she reached Waverley, and found her aunt in the garden, "I'm sure my grandfather is worse—I'm sure he's very ill. I did not see him."

Mrs Forrest was tying up a rebellious creeper, which wished to climb in its own way instead of hers. She finished binding down one of the unruly tendrils before she turned to look at her niece. Anna was flushed. Her eyelids were red and swollen.

"Why didn't you see him?" she asked. "Does Dr Hunt think him worse?"

"I don't know," said Anna. "I only saw Delia for a minute. He was asleep. I am to go again. Oh, Aunt Sarah," with a burst of sobs, "I do wish I had not gone to the picnic. I wish I had behaved better to my grandfather. I wish—"

Mrs Forrest laid her hand kindly on Anna's shoulder.

"My dear," she said, "you distress yourself without reason. We can rely on Dr Hunt's opinion that your grandfather only needs rest. Sleep is the very best thing for him. When you go this evening, you will see how foolish you have been. Meanwhile, try to exercise some self-control; occupy yourself, and the time will soon pass."

She turned to her gardening again, and Anna wandered off alone. Aunt Sarah's calm words had no comfort in them. Delia's severest rebuke, even Mrs Winn's plain speech, would have been better. She went restlessly up to her bedroom, seeking she hardly knew what. Her eye fell on the little brown case, long unopened, which held her mother's portrait. Words, long unthought of, came back to her as she looked at it.

"If you are half as good and beautiful," her father had said; and on the same day what had been Miss Milverton's last warning? "Try to value the best things."

"Oh," cried Anna to herself as she looked at the pure, truthful eyes of the picture, "if I only could begin again! But now it's all got so wrong, it can never, never be put right!"

After a while, she went into the garden again, and avoiding Mrs Forrest, crossed the little foot-bridge leading into the field, and sat down on the gate. The chimneys of Leas Farm in the distance made her think of Daisy, and the old days when they had first met, and she had been so full of good resolves. Daisy, and the good resolves, and Delia too, seemed all to have vanished together. She had no friends now. Every one had deserted her, and she had deserved it!

She was sitting during those reflections with her face buried in her hands, and presently was startled by the sound of a little voice behind her.

"What's the matter?" it said.

It was Daisy Oswald, who had come through the garden, and now stood on the bridge close to her, a basket of eggs in her hand, and her childish, freckled face full of wonder and sympathy.

Generally, Anna would have been ashamed to be seen in distress, and would have tried to hide it, but now she was too miserable to mind anything. She hid her face in her hands again, without answering Daisy's question.

"Has some one been cross?" inquired Daisy at last.

Anna shook her head. Her heart ached for sympathy even from Daisy, though she could not speak to her, and she hoped she would not go away just yet.

"Have you hurt yourself?" proceeded Daisy.

Again the same sign.

"Have you done something naughty? I did something very naughty once."

Seeing that Anna did not shake her head this time, she added, in her condescending little tone:

"If you like, I'll come and sit beside you, and tell you all about it."

She put her basket of eggs very carefully on the ground, and placed herself comfortably by Anna's side.

"It was a very naughty thing I did," she began, in a voice of some enjoyment, "worse than yours, I expect. It was a year ago, and one of our geese was sitting, and mother said she wasn't to be meddled with nohow. And the white Cochin-china hen was sitting too, and"—Daisy paused to give full weight to the importance of the crime, and opened her eyes very wide, "and—I changed 'em! I carried the goose and put her on the hen's nest, and she forsook it, and the hen forsook hers, and the eggs were all addled! Mother was angry! She said it wasn't the eggs she minded so much as the disobedience. Was yours worse than that?"

"Much, much worse," murmured Anna.

Daisy made a click with her tongue to express how shocked she felt at this idea.

"Have you said you're sorry, and you won't do it any more?" she asked. "When you're sorry, people are kind."

"I don't deserve that they should be kind," said Anna, looking up mournfully at her little adviser.

"Father and mother were kind afterwards," said Daisy. "I had to be punished though. I didn't have eggs for breakfast for a whole month after I changed the goose. I like eggs for breakfast," she added, thoughtfully. Then glancing at her basket, as she got down from the gate, "Mother sent those to Mrs Forrest. I came through the garden to find you, but I'm going back over the field. You haven't been to see Star for ever so long. She's growing a real beauty."

Long after Daisy was out of sight her simple words lingered in Anna's mind. They had made her feel less miserable, though nothing was altered. "When you're sorry, people are kind," she repeated. If her grandfather knew the very worst, if he knew that she had actually been ashamed of him, would he possibly forgive her? would he ever look kindly at her again? Anna sat up and dried her tears. She lifted her head with a sudden resolve. "I will tell him," she said to herself, "every bit about it, from the very beginning, and then I must bear whatever he says, and whatever Delia says."

It was easy to make this brave resolve, with no one to hear it but the quiet cows feeding in the field, but when the evening came, and she stood for the second time at Number 4 Back Row, her heart beat quickly with fear. When she thought of her grandfather's kind face her courage rose a little, but when she thought of what she had to tell him, it fell so low that she was almost inclined to run away. The door opened, but this time Mrs Cooper did not leave her outside. She flung open the door of the sitting-room with her other hand, and said in a loud voice, "Miss Forrest, sir."

THE END